


We Rebuild Ourselves

by presidentwarden



Series: Renewal [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, F/F, Making A Truce, unmasking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In times like these, the bravest choice is to set aside a life’s work and seek out one’s own truth. It certainly doesn’t come easily for Phasma, and her new understanding of the Order’s disasters leaves a lingering bitterness. But she is trying, for her own sake, and Rey is there to meet her halfway.</p><p>- - -</p><p>Surely Rey could use a mind-trick to turn and walk away, command Phasma to let her go, escape the trap the woman has probably set. No sensible Stormtrooper captain would come here of their own free will preaching a message of defection. </p><p>Her finger twitches on the trigger, but she holds the instinct back.</p><p>Phasma is the first to make a move. Her own blaster is a heavy shiny thing, two-handed and powerful, and when she lifts one metal-gloved hand off it, it is a gesture of trust. She no longer has anything to fear. Diligence defines her; at the base she would punish a subordinate for setting aside their weapon so readily, so freely, leaving themselves open to harm. But the First Order itself has done more harm than good, so she has chosen to change herself accordingly. </p><p>There are some things that even Phasma did not understand until she saw the Starkiller lay waste to worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Rebuild Ourselves

She is expecting none of this.

The way Finn had described the Stormtroopers’ superior officer, that austere lady in her gleaming suit of polished chrome, a heavy cloak around her shoulders and a blaster at her side -- it would seem impossible to put a face to such a woman, her identity shown only by the crisp accented voice filtered through the thick metallic filters of the uniform helmet. She represents authority, and dignity, and formidable power. She has rank, and a _name,_ a rarity among the Stormtroopers with their frightening uniformity.

She has secured her place in the Order. There is no reason for her to leave them.

And yet Finn broke free of it all, so why cannot she?

Rey waits, cautious, eyeing her adversary with a wary gaze, fingers tight around the grip of her compact little blaster. It packs a punch, capable of putting a blazing bolt through an enemy from countless paces away, but she has no doubt that the Captain’s weapon would outmatch hers in an instant. Maybe it won’t come to that. The air shimmers imperceptibly, the tug of the dormant Force pulling at her like so many unraveling threads. She shakes her head, feeling the knots of her hairstyle falling into wisps that frame her ears and tickle the back of her neck. They are drawn into a stalemate, here and now, facing each other with lethal intensity.

Phasma is ill at ease, but so is Rey. They are both out of place, Phasma encased and shimmering in Stormtrooper armor with that faceless helmet atop broad shoulders, Rey still dressed in her trademark gauzy tan with a staff at her back. These used to suit them both, Phasma mirroring the sleek metal of First Order starships and Rey wandering across the abandoned sands of Jakku. Both outfits were once camouflage for them in their chosen habitats.

But here, amid all this green, they stand out like nothing else could.

Rey is frozen still, like a predator lying in wait. She does not have the advantage of hiding her expressions behind a mask, but she can feign indifference to hide her fear. Surely she could use a mind-trick to turn and walk away, command Phasma to let her go, escape the trap the woman has probably set. No sensible Stormtrooper captain would come here of their own free will preaching a message of defection.

Her finger twitches on the trigger, but she holds the instinct back.

Phasma is the first to make a move. Her own blaster is a heavy shiny thing, two-handed and powerful, and when she lifts one metal-gloved hand off it, it is a gesture of trust. She no longer has anything to fear. Diligence defines her; at the base she would punish a subordinate for setting aside their weapon so readily, so freely, leaving themselves open to harm. But the First Order itself has done more harm than good, so she has chosen to change herself accordingly.

There are some things that even Phasma did not understand until she saw the Starkiller lay waste to worlds.

Despite all, there is no sentiment about this, no emotional impulse urging her to turn tail and flee from her origins like FN-2187 did. She has simply weighed the facts, and measured, and seen the consequences of what the Order chooses to do. There is no reason Phasma should _not_ undo the work she has helped build -- oh, but how it will sting, as all necessary duties do. Has not the Order defined itself by devotion to its own namesake? Eliminating disorder is a priority for Phasma, too. Yet the destruction of the Republic threw the galaxy into more chaos than before, and she cannot bear to witness the consequences. Ren is misled and violent, and Hux is a fool full of mistakes, and Snoke seeks his own goals with a selfishness that Phasma cannot abide.

It hurts to throw her lot in with the _rebels,_ but she has no choice.

So Phasma lifts her chin, eyeing the girl before her, and lays down her weapon, letting it slip from her hands and land in the soft dewy grass. Something at the corner of her mind wonders what it would feel like to lean down and touch the earth beneath her feet. She has known little more than metal and plastic and bright energy, a lifetime spent on space vessels watching the stars glide by. Rey must feel the same, though for a different cause. Phasma has read the documentation, knows of the girl’s origins on that dismal desert planet. What a drab existence, following a routine merely to survive. How it must wear away at a lonely soul. But who could say Phasma hasn’t done the exact same? The Stormtroopers form bonds, surely, but as an officer she always thought herself above them. The meaningful connections that kept her tied to the Order were all of her own making. The bonds of duty hold so much tighter when self-imposed.

Only she could shed her own shackles. And she has.

Defiantly, Phasma lifts off the helmet, and lets it fall beside the gun.

The look in Rey’s eyes is something sacred. Her breath stills, and she squeezes her weapon tighter, suddenly grateful for the safety catch as it clicks beneath her fingers. There is enough courage and strength in her wiry frame to face a foe more powerful than her, but she falters in the face of this formidable woman, commanding and tenacious, with a soft face carved by angels.

Phasma is here, and she is surrendering to _Rey,_ and for once in Rey’s young life, she is at loss for words.

Rey takes another look, unconsciously reaching up to brush a few strands of untidy brown hair from her forehead, squinting under the hot sun. Her blaster returns to its holster, hanging heavy around her hips, and in her unease and curiosity she steps forward, crushing blades of precious grass underfoot. Her eyes are wide, staff shifting around her shoulders as she straightens her back. She is doing her best to look the part of a young Force-sensitive prodigy with the world at her feet, but Phasma is much more imposing and impressive, and again nagging doubts recur in Rey’s mind and she pauses. This _can’t_ be right.

Of course it serves her right for venturing out. It had taken effort to get permission to leave, which made Rey chafe under the watchful restraints of authority. A life lived alone as a scavenger does not readily lend itself to power structures, despite Leia’s kindness. So naturally Rey’s trip into the grasslands would be ruined by the timely defection of one of the First Order’s highest officers, walking right up to the spot where she sat atop a hill with an informative book and a nutritious lunch.

What a disruption.

She squints at Phasma again, taking stock. The woman beneath the uniform is even more impressive than her armor, Rey thinks to herself for a fleeting moment, and then feels strange for the thought. Back on Jakku there was nothing like this to worry about, just fallen husks of twisted metal and bland bread-rations and endless seas of sand. She had some things that mattered to her, a sparse few souvenirs, but she left it all behind with an ease that surprised her, once she made peace with her destiny.

Has Phasma done the same? She must have.

Phasma looks at Rey through cool blue eyes, lips pursed in an authoritative scowl. Short blonde hair frames her face, striking in its loveliness though sweat-damp from a trek across the warm planet’s fields, and Phasma lifts a metal-gloved hand and runs a hand through it, fluffing it up with a twisted pang of self-consciousness that is entirely foreign to her. She stares at Rey harder, waiting for her to say something.

Rey doesn’t.

Phasma’s voice rings out, clipped accent coating a warm voice. Her first words are louder than she expects. She is used to speaking through the Stormtrooper mask, and she drops her tone. How strange to hear her own voice when it’s not echoing back into her ears, thick and metallic through the filter.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” She feels her ire rising, but just a mild flare, enough to lift her voice to a crisp edge of disapproval. “Certainly you’ve seen a Stormtrooper before.”

Rey snaps back instantly. “Yes. More than I’d like.”

Phasma lifts her chin, a faint frown playing across her lips. “Then stop gawking at me.”

“Why?” Rey stares right back, facing down the woman with her feet planted and her staff sinking into the soft dirt. Light wind whips at her hair, and her thin lips form a defiant smirk, eyeing Phasma. This is an opportunity, she knows it, but she cannot quite place how.

Phasma folds her arms. The armor clinks uncomfortably. “For one, it’s impolite.”

Rey sets a hand on her hip sternly. “Having one’s lunch interrupted by an enemy is equally impolite.”

This was not how they expected it to go.

Rey advances. Years of life on Jakku have honed her patience to a blunt edge. “Explain yourself.”

Phasma draws herself up, standing her ground. She won’t falter now. There is absolutely no going back. Ren is probably having a temper tantrum about her absence right this instant. “I’ve opened my eyes to the First Order’s mistakes. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Rey wasn’t expecting _that._ Some specific vendetta, perhaps; Phasma finding herself wronged by someone else in the Order, or simply sick of her situation. These kinds of decisions are always drawn from grudges or personal grievances. What kind of willpower does it take to look at your own life and reverse your chosen path?

She nods, reluctant. “I can respect that.”

Phasma stays still as stone, her voice still pert and sharp with indignant attitude. “Do you respect it enough to bring me to your resistance leaders?”

Rey pauses, and then laughs, and the sound echoes through the scattered trees and gets lost in the wind.

“You’re not very subtle, are you?”

“Subtlety does not befit a First Order Captain.”

Rey is captivated again as she speaks, studying Phasma’s face. It’s not what she would have expected, and yet she is somehow not surprised. She’s as lovely outside the uniform as in it, with a soft full mouth and high forehead. The lines of her face are gentle, and she is a vision of graceful pale dignity. Rey’s decided that these stirring feelings are all just respect, pure admiration for a woman who’s risen to power and influence in this hard world. She wouldn’t mind working alongside Phasma for a while.

“I guess not.” She leans on her staff. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am.” Again Phasma’s expression flashes with indignation. “About what, exactly?”

Rey gets right to the point. “You’re defecting.”

She easily deflects. “I’m doing my duty.”

“To who?”

“Myself.” And the rest of the citizens scattered about a million planets, who might lose their lives at the whim of Snoke and Ren and their cohort of power-hungry vandals. Phasma doesn’t stand for that kind of ruination. She can no longer tolerate loss in the name of order.

Rey understands this without hearing it spoken.

She looks Phasma up and down, studying the shiny silver suit that encases her. Finally she nods, offering her approval. “You’d better pick up that helmet. Leave it here and it’ll rust.”

Phasma bends down and retrieves it, cloak falling about her shoulders as she lifts the mask and blaster, and again Rey feels that strange stir of longing. She stands still, watching Phasma, mouth open and brow furrowed and fingers twisted in the gauzy cloth of her shirt’s hem, and time seems to flow more slowly around them both.

She takes a pace away, fetches her book and bag, and beckons for Phasma to follow.

The woman falls into step beside her with long strides, and Rey trots to keep up, leading the way back towards the rebel base across the lush grassland. Doubts still nag at her, as they should for any sensible soul, but if Phasma wanted Rey dead she would have struck her down where she sat unaware.

Now and then the girl glances up at the captain, chewing her lower lip, and their shoulders brush against each other as they stride together.

Neither of them mind it.


End file.
